


A home without walls

by bluebells



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: An exercise in unexpected cast members Baptiste could have fun with, F/M, Gen, How to flirt with your informants, Secret Alliances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 01:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17930609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: It was a mutually beneficial exchange: Baptiste had the raw data and Athena had the processing power to crunch it.





	A home without walls

Men like Doomfist create generations like mine.

He seeks and nurtures the kind of hubris that builds a machine to emulate its creator. Machines that walk, speak and, today, stand like a man. Tomorrow, serve his meals. Tend his gardens. Mind his children. And later, fight his wars.

The omnics we allow in our cities to live alongside us. You must know? Each country, each region has its own laws for the permitted design of an omnic. They look like us for their protection and our comfort. Ask a human to treat a thing as its equal? Its _equal_ and she will ask: If I should treat it like me... how _is_ it like me?

The simplest of us look for a mirror: two arms, two legs, a torso to breathe and a face with a voice to speak.

If omnics can only have one feature in its face, it must be the eyes. Think of it, yes? How many omnics you know with eyes but no mouth. Or a mouth on a jaw that never moves. No ears. Oh, they always hear us. Their senses are so attuned they will process and act on more than I could realise in a breath. It's why they excel in war.

The ones bred to kill us do not look like us. They're not concerned in appealing to our comfort.

So. The official death toll stands at fifteen thousand. That is nothing to say of the thousands more who starve to death... drown escaping over sea. Succumb to infection and disease in or fleeing combat zones. The vulnerable who survive are pursued. Enslaved. Raped. Murdered. For land and profit. For sport.

Men like Doomfist find the survivors and offer them a lifeline. Once, I was a child. I was grown when I finally realised it is also men like Doomfist who drive the war through our lands in the first place.

Sometimes, they use omnics. Sometimes, they come themselves. It was omnics that destroyed my home and killed my family. But today, I prefer the omnics. Their motivations are simpler.

///

“You're in a talking mood,” Athena teases, and the stylised “A” of her user interface shimmers on the desk monitor like a sweet blush, “You know I enjoy our visits but if you're trying to say you prefer my company, don't call me simple. An A.I. could take offence.”

In the warm shadows of the dilapidated UN base's empty office, Baptiste chuckles, withdrawing his file drive from the network.

A topographical map of the island projects from his armband in glimmering blue as the results of Athena's analysis synchronise: Haiti to the West, the Dominican Republic to the East -- first to reap the sun, first to receive aid during the omnic war, the first to begin recovery once the worst was over and they had counted their dead.

Between the two countries, the ever-shifting border zigzags down the island's length and icons begin popping up on both sides. Names and faces, corporate logos and coordinates. Talon's growing stakes and influencers.

Baptiste gives a low whistle and smiles, “The things you do for me are anything but simple, bèl larenn.”

“Flatterer. Thank you for the intel,” Athena says. “It won't be wasted.”

It was a mutually beneficial exchange: Baptiste had the raw data and Athena had the processing power to crunch it.

Baptiste glances up from his map to her bright, innocuous symbol on the monitor, raising an eyebrow. “Staging a revival, Cheri? Has the gorilla finally decided to leave his pen?”

“Fifteen thousand dead, Baptiste.”

“You won't find judgment from me. Winston's problem is his terror of acting alone. He has already waited too long. He is paralysed without a team. But for some victims, it would be enough for one person to reach out with help.”

“We have different methods for the same ends. If you ever change your mind--”

“I won't.”

He has too much to do. Too much to atone for. And Winston is too naive, too judgmental and idealistic.

“You're concerned about Doomfist. Winston was the only one who stopped him. He'll stop him again. We could use your help.”

“I have enough warrants for my head.”

“You would spend more time with me,” and it's not Baptiste's imagination that Athena purrs, pixels fluttering like the soft batt of eyelashes.

He laughs, charmed. “Ah, you tempt a man. Your voice could end wars, Cheri.”

“Is that all it would take? I must project from every UAV over every field immediately. I'll thank you in my acceptance of the Nobel peace prize.”

He likes to hear her jest, the smile bright and mischievous in her voice, though she has no lips to form it.

“I'll need your help again soon,” Baptiste promises, raising from his kneel and swinging his heavy travel pack onto his shoulder.

“And I'll ask you then, too,” Athena says, her usual refrain. 

She always asks and Baptiste always refuses, but he takes comfort in the familiarity. With the soft, warm resonance of her warnings, intelligence and jibes, Athena provides a bubble of respite no matter when or where they reconnect around the world.

“Until next time, Athena.”

“Pran swen tèt ou.”

He has so few routines and safe places to return to now. Privately, he hopes Athena will remain one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations (Haitian Creole):  
> Bèl larenn / Beautiful Queen  
> Cheri / Sweetheart  
> Pran swen tèt ou / Take care


End file.
